


To Break A Curse

by twistedthicket1



Series: Reincarnate [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Magic, Mythology - Freeform, Romance, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 23:34:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedthicket1/pseuds/twistedthicket1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The time is drawing near. Either Sherlock must make a choice, or John must make one.<br/>Finding out that Sherlock has lived many lives is in some ways the least surprising thing for John.</p><p>What's most shocking, is how he will play a role in saving the two men who were cursed for their crimes so long ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Break A Curse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anihan (Nakagami)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nakagami/gifts).



> ....I'm sorry. 
> 
> But I hope you enjoy...
> 
> sorry this took so long to post...

 

 

The morning dawns, tingeing Baker Street a brilliant glittering gold as it casts itself over the city of London. Spilling into the flat, it seems to turn everything into a dusky glow of honey. John watches as it falls over Sherlock's sweat-soaked curls, turning their inky colour to a rich chocolate brown. The man's head is tucked under his chin, and the soldier can just see the edges of his hair if he looks down. John's fingers are twisted in them, anchoring Sherlock in place as they both sit curled up on the bathroom floor. It's early, very early, but neither make a move to get up and neither are quite prepared to face the day.

 

They've been sitting there for most of the night. John's legs have long since cramped and then fallen asleep, but he doesn't dare move. Instead he clutches more tightly to the thin man leaning against him, as tight as he dares to when Sherlock's half-asleep. The man had finally slumped forward into an exhausted doze somewhere just on the wrong side of midnight, after a panic attack that still had John's fingers clenching and unclenching in horror. His lips are bloodied from his own teeth worrying at them, and he can taste the coppery flavour of it as he dares himself to reflect on how this situation arose. The memory of last night still feels like a dream if he thinks too deeply.

Or rather, a nightmare.

 

“ _I hanged myself.”_

 

His eyes close, as if he can dispel the quaver that had laced those words by blocking out the image of Sherlock sobbing. Until now, John had only seen the detective cry once, and it had been for a case in which his partner had deliberately cried crocodile tears in order to gain information from a suspect. If he had been given the option, John might have wanted to see it once if only out of curiosity. That was before he realised how much it  _hurt_  him to watch Sherlock fall apart.

 

It had been horrific.

 

John wasn't one for dramatics, but the second he had seen the detective's tear-stained face, he had felt a part of him scream  _wrong_ down to his very core. Though John was just getting used to everything Sherlock had told him (and he had told him rather a lot) he hadn't hesitated in comforting the man, even if he didn't even really know what was bothering him.

 

But what disturbed John the most wasn't the actual tears, it was when he looked into the detective's eyes, for just a moment he had seen potential for  _madness_ lurking in their depths. Not the usual, brilliant and shimmering insanity that was intrinsically and utterly Sherlock Holmes, but a raw and desperate unhinging that only came back together when John forced the pieces into a whole.

 

He wonders to himself as he gently manages to get a half-asleep Sherlock to his feet, how the detective had managed to stay sane for so long.

 

Then again, Sherlock had told him that he forgets his lifetimes. At least at first. As John all but scoops the man up into his arms to get him into his bed, he suddenly wishes blissful ignorance could last. The detective doesn't really stir, only whines softly when John makes to leave him in peace. The army doctor manages to fool his partner's sleeping mind with a pillow, which Sherlock curls around tightly. The image makes a vague guilty tightening happen in John's gut, but he forces himself to focus on the matter at hand so that his emotions don't overwhelm him. It's so rare for Sherlock to actually succumb to slumber, and he doesn't want to wake him, especially if he's not having nightmares.

 

As much as John would like to hold Sherlock and shield him from the rest of the world, he has a call to make. One that he suspects the detective would very much disapprove of.

 

Soundlessly, he goes upstairs and changes into new clothes, seating himself cross-legged on his bed and palming his phone for a moment before sending off a text. John bites his lip, typing the words out carefully.

 

_Things are going to start unravelling, I know it. He told me everything. Tell me. What I have to do to stop this?- J.W_

 

Mycroft's answering text is immediate, but it does little to make John feel better. In fact, it makes him want to hit something with such sudden ferocity that he bites the inside of his cheek. He tastes blood.

 

_**There is nothing you can do. -M.H** _

 

John's reply is typed out before he has time to think about it.

 

_I do not accept that answer.- J.W_

 

He feels his stomach drop out from under him when his phone buzzes one last time, and John silently curls himself into a ball of pensive thought as he stares at the screen. His blue eyes burn, but he refuses to break down. Refuses, because it will help nothing. He grits his teeth, stops himself.

 

Even though his heart feels as though it's being torn out of his chest, he remains dry-eyed and unyielding.

 

_**You don't get a say in this. It is just how things are.-M.H** _

 

 

And then as an almost afterthought

 

_**I'm sorry. -M.H** _

 

John doesn't know that at that moment, Mycroft is currently lying in bed next to the Detective Inspector. The man's spindly fingers brush through the silver strands of Greg's hair before he puts his phone back on the night-stand, turning to brush his partner's forehead with a chaste kiss before he becomes lost in his own thoughts.

 

 

When Sherlock wakes, he sees John sitting at the foot of the bed.

The blonde soldier's spine is ramrod straight as he looks Sherlock in the eye, his lips a thin white line of tension. There is a spark in John's eye of something determined, and the detective recognizes it and swallows. The sound is heavy in the air. Wordlessly, Sherlock reaches out his hand, taking John's fingers in his own.

 

The warmth is real, living.

 _Comforting,_ his mind supplies.

It threatens to break him, his emotions already raw and strained from feeling so many things in such a short time span. Sherlock used to be proud of the fact that he had no heart to break, used to boast in his cold and calculating ways. Now he wonders how he could have ever fooled himself into such a lie. How he could have missed, how he  _nearly **did** miss out _on this. It is not sadness, it is not joy, it is  _love_ in its most desperate form, and it's threatening to make him lose himself. Lose his head, lose his careful mask of indifference.

 

And John is at the centre of it, stoking the flames that warm him now but will eventually leave him an ashen husk. Burning him with kindness, killing him with friendship.

 

Making him feel like he has found  _Heaven_ inside of his own  _Hell._

 

“Take me with you.”

John looks at him with wide, dark blue eyes. Eyes that are strong and yet are so tender and  _brave._

 

“Please.... Don't go where I can't follow..... _Please..._ ”

 

His voice cracks at the end of his plea, and he licks his lips and ducks his head, cheeks flushing. John's fingers tighten, clutching like he's afraid he might disappear.

 

 _And he's right,_  Sherlock realises.

 

_I may very well vanish all to soon. I might never see him again._

 

The detective winces.

 

_But do you want him to become like **you?**_

 

Sherlock can't breathe, and he starts shaking his head  _no_ before he aborts the motion and instead pulls John into his embrace, caging his stocky frame in his own. He pins him in place, pressing fevered kisses to his brow, trailing down to his throat which John exposes with a small sound that makes the detective want nothing more than to make this last. His hand is still gripped in John's fingers tightly interlocking as Sherlock tries to memorize every inch of him, categorize every sound. His Mind-Palace wants to laminate the man's breath ghosting against the crook of his neck, wants to record the soft keening John makes when the detective runs his free fingers through his hair. Sherlock wants to taste every flavour of John there is, his fear and love and stress and awkwardness and kindness and passion and anger and  _Joy._

 

He wants it all, because he knows all too soon he won't be able to have it at all.

That's when he knows he can't go through with the  _ **Curse**_ , and when he knows that John's trembling against him because somehow, he  _knows._

 

He  _knows_ and it  _terrifies_ him.

Sherlock can feel it, as surely as he can feel the wetness seeping against the collar of his shirt.

 

As sure as he can feel his  _ **Mark**_ , searing against his chest.

 

He wants to say he's sorry.

Wants to say that he's found an answer.

Wants to pretend he's the infallible detective, strong and stoic that everyone seems to hate and yet believe in.

Well, everyone except John.

 

“Shut up.”

 

Sherlock realises John's been reading his expression, his eyes wet but a small smile on his face as he pulls the detective gently forward until their lips meet again. Every inch of John is trembling, shaking to pieces, but his voice is steady. Strong.

He whispers into the shell of Sherlock's ear, holding him like he's the most precious thing in this world.

 

“You are the bravest, most  _brilliant_  man I've ever met. And somehow, we'll get through this.”

 

In response his  _ **Mark**_ throbs, and both of them gasp as John feels it through the fabric of Sherlock's shirt.

Slowly, John unbuttons the collar of the detective's shirt, revealing what lies underneath. Both of them tremble as they see Athena's  _ **Mark**_ , not longer shining silver.

 

Instead it is openly weeping blood, crimson liquid dripping down Sherlock's like sluggish tears.

Trying for a joke but failing miserably, Sherlock looks at John and frowns.

 

“Well, that's never happened before.”

 

****

Mycroft's  _Diogene's  Club _is soon frighteningly claustrophobic, filled to the brim with not only half of Scotland Yard it seems but as well as one Sherlock Holmes, one John Watson, one Greg Lestrade and all of Sherlock's pent-up anger suddenly loose upon finding an outlet. In the middle he sits surrounded by all of it, fingers tightening around the handle of his umbrella in irritation. Both Greg and Sherlock are shirtless, gauze patching up one side of their chests, and his younger brother paces restlessly like a boxer preparing for a fight. He dances between the chairs, whirling out a hundred different theories as to why both and he and Greg seemed for all intents and purposes, destined to slowly bleed out.

 

“The  _ **Curse**_ has been changing and evolving, but it's already weak. It doesn't have the energy to do so since Athena's passing. Perhaps an adverse reaction? Or is it a chemical thing? It's no doubt a direct response to the change in the Prophecy...”

 

Sherlock babbles, hands folded in front of him as he whirls about, eyes flicking to Greg's wound before carrying on.

 

“It is affecting both of us since our  _ **Curse**_ is connected, and because of the weakness of the spell its manifesting in physical mutilation. But what does it  _mean_? Is it finally breaking? Or is it just changing into something worse? What are the implications....”

 

No answer is reached. The declaration only sends Sally Donovan into a tizzy and makes Greg shift with nerves. John remains silent, looking at all the people he thought he knew. They all look like strangers in his eyes now, Sergeant Donovan's eyes glinting slitted and cat-like in certain light, Mrs. Hudson's pupils glowing gold.

 

He wonders just how many secrets, how much magic and intrigue is hidden just underneath the layer of London's everyday bustle and thrum.

 

****

It is on their way home that Mrs. Hudson grips John's shoulder. Her eyes are wide and knowledgeable, and she stares at the soldier before her with pursed lips. In their depths, John sees wisdom and something else, something flickering that makes the old woman seem suddenly much stronger than her outward appearance suggests.

Her voice is soft as her gaze flicks once to Sherlock and back to him, keeping her voice low and pitched. Her tone weighs heavy on John's mind, and she looks at him intensely, daring him to break her stare.

 

“Someone will die soon, John.”

She confides in him quietly, looking down briefly at her feet and seeming almost sad.

“Someone must always die.”

 

His throat tightens, and he is just about to respond when the old woman shushes him, her grip tightening its hold.

 

“However, the  _ **Curse**_ is weak. It's dying, and has been for a long time. Even magic cannot last forever. John-”

 

She bites her lip, starts again.

“John. We think this is the last one. The last cycle. So long as someone dies....”

 

Sherlock stops ahead of them, seeming to sense John's presence no longer by his side, his dark curls whip around to search for his blogger, and Mrs. Hudson quickly releases her grip. However the detective's eyes are sharp, and they narrow slightly in suspicion at the pair before Sherlock turns away. Mrs. Hudson sighs, finishing her sentence with the grim solemnity of a Prophet.

 

“So long as someone dies, someone who is  _close_ to Sherlock..... The  _ **Curse**_ will dissolve.”

 

She looks at him then, her voice breaking slightly as she resists the urge to wrap the blonde man into a hug.

 

“But  _please_ , if you find any other answer.... _Don't pick up that phone call._ We all love you dear, and even if it seems like the only way.... there is always a  _choice._ ”

 

John watches as she dabs at her eyes, walking away resolutely and forcing a smile to her face. She passes Sherlock and gives him a fond pat on the arm, to which the detective looks at her in confusion before he looks back at John. His eyebrows draw together in silent concern, and the army doctor forces a smile to his face, hoping it's genuine enough to pass.

 

He doesn't need to ask which phone call, as later on that day Sherlock phone buzzes while the man is off running tests in Molly's lab. John answers it without thinking, and a grinning, cat-like voice drawls in his ear.

 

“Well, I wanted the ringleader, but I suppose his little  _dog_  will do just fine.”

 

Somehow, Moriarty had managed to slip their minds.

 

****

_They're all going to die._

 

_** Sherlock- ** _

 

_No. Everyone._

_Unless...._

 

Jim somehow made the choice easy.

 

It's strange, how a single threat can send John's entire world spinning into perfect clarity.

He takes his coat, and is glad now that he did as the wind is cold and biting atop the roof of St. Bart's. It ruffles his hair as he stands, hands in his pockets and regards the madman that's sitting on the edge of the roof before him. In his hands his phone blasts  _Stayin ' Alive_, and Jim's smile is lazy and curling as he takes in John's stoic frame. His dark eyes glitter and when he speaks it's a slow, calculating thing.

 

John finds he isn't scared.

No, more resigned.

 

He's not afraid, because he knows with abrupt certainty how this must end.

 

How it will always end.

 

With a Fall.

 

The question is, who will go toppling over the edge in the end?

 

****

“John-”

 

“Stay where you are.”

 

“John  _please-”_

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“....Don't do this....”

 

“You'd have done it for me.....”

Crying. Begging. Pleading.

 

“I love you. Shh. I promise it won't be goodbye."

 

****

 

Moriarty holds him at gunpoint.

 

John Watson isn't afraid.

He hasn't lived a thousand lifetimes, hasn't been anything other than himself. He hasn't seen a thousand exotic and strange countries, hasn't fought off rogue pirates or stolen buried treasure. He hasn't even managed to get married, settle down with a family and have kids.

 

But it doesn't matter.

 

It doesn't matter, because he can see Sherlock below, holding the phone to his ear and sobbing, and John knows he is willing to risk everything.

Everything to get a chance to live his one, solitary life with Sherlock Holmes.

 

So when he jumps, and he does, he grabs Moriarty's sleeve, pulling the psychopath along with him, the two of them tumbling, hurtling towards the ground.

 

It feels like flying.

It feels like freedom.

 

_Someone close to Sherlock must die._

 

The two closest people to Sherlock Holmes, both evil and good, fell together.

And one survived.

 

  


  


**_A man must fall and a man must die,_ **

**_that part of the tale cannot change._ **

**_Yet is falling a physical act or a lie?_ **

**_When the heart can fall just the same?_ **


End file.
